


Salt and Disinfectant

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Competency, Feminist Themes, Gen, Medicine, Science, Women Being Badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11723976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: The woman who lead her up the stairs to see the two rooms she’d been able to afford on what was left of her army pay doesn’t even blink at the sight of the scars around her neck. The stairs creaked as they climbed, and the person in the room downstairs was snoring so hard that the windows rattled, even if it was still bright outside.“A business, you said?” the woman had said instead, looking at the huge medical bag in Igorina’s hand and at her spotless apron. “Stitching those up that can’t afford those fancy doctors, then?”“A hand where needed, Madam,” Igorina said, touching her hair as if to remind herself that there was no need to dress up as a boy in the city. “I’ll give help to all those that want it.”Igorina heads to Ankh-Morpork and sets up her own medical practice.





	Salt and Disinfectant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadHatter13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/gifts).



The woman who lead her up the stairs to see the two rooms she’d been able to afford on what was left of her army pay doesn’t even blink at the sight of the scars around her neck. The stairs creaked as they climbed, and the person in the room downstairs was snoring so hard that the windows rattled, even if it was still bright outside.

“A business, you said?” the woman had said instead, looking at the huge medical bag in Igorina’s hand and at her spotless apron. “Stitching those up that can’t afford those fancy doctors, then?”

“A hand where needed, Madam,” Igorina said, touching her hair as if to remind herself that there was no need to dress up as a boy in the city. “I’ll give help to all those that want it.”

The rooms are small, but they are reasonably clean and tidy. The only furniture in there was an iron-frame bed, a wooden chest and a table. A huge iron sink was in one corner and a cracked mirror above it. The landlady had a noticeable limp and a faded scar on her cheek, the sort of injuries you got from an all-out barfight. She kept glancing at the medical bag with an odd sort of hope in her eyes.

“If you want some furniture on the cheap, our Harry can help you out,” the landlady said, handing over the keys. “I’m sure there are ladies around that’ll be glad to see someone like you around. Some of ‘em don’t want lads to look at their injuries, you see.”

Igorina nodded, already looking around the rooms.

It took four hours to clean the place up to her satisfaction, but there was a sort of savage joy in wiping away the dirt. Igorina scrubbed the skink clean of grime and old shaving cream until it gleamed. The inside of the windows were coated with salt and oil, as if the former resident had been trying and failing to make good potato chips and had ended up throwing some of the ingredients at the window. The knowledge that there was no-one standing behind her making comments about her abilities unless they’d take a coach all the way up here felt heavy and solid in her mind.

Armed with a good desk, two wooden chairs and a well-maintained if old fold-out bed with the crinkly paper, there was nothing that would stop her. She’d gotten the fold-out bed second-hand from another Igor up in the mountains of Uberwald, and carried it all the way to the city. His eyes had flickered when they’d met, looking for still burning torches. The bed would only slow him down, he’d said, and handed it over. Crinkly paper wasn’t card to come by in Ankh-Morpork. Igorina kept the large room as her office, but turned the room at the back into a small bedroom. It had large windows and a drainpipe just outside, fortified in case people would one day show up with pitchforks and torches.

Patients came slowly, just a trickle at first. Eatery cooks who’d burned themselves when the stewpot had fallen over and the bubbling contents spilled over their hands. Men and women too afraid of their attackers to dare to go to Lady Sybil’s hospital, even if it was free, as they could be seen enter through the main door. Children who’d broken their hands falling from trees and all those who just needed someone to push a shoulder socket back in. They all stared at the jars in their neat little rows on the new shelves, nervously chuckling when they saw things bobbing up and down within.

Then there were those who’d been in fights, the sort that got your nose bitten off and all your fingers broken. Igorina had spent the morning sowing ears back on and applying salves onto bruises when the lady stepped inside.

 And she was a lady, all right. All the little indicators of wealth were there, despite the dirty boots and missing nose. Ruby earrings dangled from her ears and the lace around her throat was from Sto Helit, and her gloves were a peculiar mixture of leather and padding, contrasting with the ribbons woven into the woman’s elaborate hairdo.

“Brenda Rodley,” the lady said in a business-like fashion of those who are too busy for chitchat. “You’re Igorina, yes?”

“Yes,” Igorina said, reaching for a rag to soak up the blood.

“I couldn’t find my nose on the floor,” the fine woman said. “And it wouldn’t have been hygienic anyhow, nothing but broken glass and beer around.”

“I’ll give you a new one,” Igorina said, already reaching for a jar. “If that is what you want.”

Rodley made a gurgling sound when she nodded and clearly restrained herself from spitting blood on the shiny floor. She sat down on the fold-out bed, all prim and proper.

“My colleague said that you sewed up her arm so well that you can’t even see the stitches,” Rodley said. “Emma was jolly grateful for that. Some of the dragons that’ve been thrown on the street aren’t so friendly when we try to rescue them.”

It was a matter of minutes to select a new nose and begin sewing. It didn’t take long, not with the materials and knowledge she had. And afterwards, Rodley had tapped her nose, slid several genuine gold Ankh-Morpork dollars into her palm along with a wad of old stamps, and left.

The wealthier clients began showing up after that, early in the morning or near midnight, all asking for small and discreet surgeries to improve their looks or comfort. The money was enough so that she could rent the room downstairs too, turning it into a special waiting room with good seats and a stack of old editions of the times and several magazines about cooking that she suspected Shufti would have loved.

The Igors here nodded at her when she passed them in the street and there was nothing but genuinely polite conversations about surgeries and the benefits of good heirloom fingers.

And one fine day, another Igorina showed up at her doorstep with a suitcase that sloshed because of all the jars stuffed inside and a defiant expression on her face. She’d sat down and accepted a cup of tea, drumming her fingers on the table and pulling at the edges of her dress until she saw the grin on Igorina’s face.

“ _We’ll show them_ ,” Igorina said, clinking her teacup against the newcomer’s. “You can practice here too, as long as you like. We’ll show them all what we can do.”


End file.
